


the fantastic no 1

by Verabird



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:37:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For fandot creativity night, the prompt was the fantastic no 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fantastic no 1

Martin takes Douglas' hand, noting to himself that it feels cold, but focusing on curling fingers in fingers. He gives a squeeze praying that Douglas will return his touch.

"Douglas?" He prompts, voice quiet, laced with concern. After a moment's pause Douglas responds with a gentle grunt and a weak squeeze. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. S'not your fault," Douglas slurs back, mumbling incoherently, and Douglas _never_ mumbles.

Martin shivers and pulls himself closer into Douglas' frame, usually so warm and comforting, in this moment frighteningly cold.

It had been Martin's fault, no matter what Douglas said. Half of all plane crashes were caused by pilot error, and it had been Martin who'd misread equipment, misjudged weather conditions, failed to recognise a mechanical error until too late.

"I'm sorry Douglas, I'm so sorry."  
Douglas shakes his head, an imperceptible movement, but Martin is watching him closely, making sure his chest rises and falls in a steady breathing pattern. He looks up to the flight deck door, curved inwards, cut through with a painful metal gash. The lock is broken, metal bar jutting afore the handle; it will take a monolithic effort to get it open. They'll have to wait for the rescue team and Martin thanks no one in particular under his breath that this cargo flight had no cabin crew or passengers.

Martin's heart is racing, his face flushes in a cold sweaty panic, and his pulse threatens to rip from his skin. The anxiety comes in waves. He assumes he's calm and then he remembers the precarious situation and it all comes flooding back in waves of high blood pressure and fear.

"Talk to me Douglas," He says, voice high and unsteady. "I need you to talk to me."  
"Not much to say."

Douglas' voice is so quiet, weak. Martin swallows, throat dry as sandpaper, hands clammy. He holds Douglas' hand so tight he fears he might crush it, the other hand is shaking Douglas' shoulder ever so gently.

Martin won't begin to entertain the idea that Douglas won't make it. It was his error that got them trapped in the inescapable snow drift, Douglas with unknown injuries that he is sure are only getting worse as time crawls by.

"There's something I need to tell you," Martin says softly. "Before it's..."

Before it's too late.

But Martin doesn't, he's scared of the finality, he's always hated endings. His throat closes up, his lips are locked. There'll always be the two of them, forever.

He can't bare to be alone, he can't manage, not without Douglas. One is such a lonely number.

He squeezes Douglas' hand again.


End file.
